


haunt

by covetsubjugation



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 22:46:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4805018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/covetsubjugation/pseuds/covetsubjugation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one remembers Napoleon, except for Illya.</p>
            </blockquote>





	haunt

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote all of you smut last time, now I am going to stuff angst down your throat.
> 
> Title from Bastille's Haunt, which you can listen to here.

People say you don't know what you've got until it's gone.

*

When Illya wakes up on the morning of the 12th of July 1964, and he reaches out across the bed, expecting to feel warm skin and a sleepy body, only to feel nothing, he realises he is alone.

 

His fingers grasp at empty air, and his eyes fly open. He's curled up on his side, facing the bright balcony, the window's framed by white lace curtains flapping loosely in the wind and he is alone.

 

The other side of the bed is cold and he can't feel any of Napoleon's warmth. Not to mention, the bed is neat and tidy, no sign at all that an American spy could have been resting there.

 

His heart drops a little, and he thinks that Napoleon might have skipped out on him, snuck out in the dead of the night, and left him there by himself, erasing all indications of his presence from the night before.

 

But he wouldn’t have, would he?

 

His breath catches in his throat and he turns over to bury his face in Napoleon's pillow, to bury his face in Napoleon's lingering scent.

 

He smells nothing.

*

The room has been cleared as well. He sees the bottle of vodka he had opened the night before for Napoleon and himself, but Napoleon's glass is missing and only his remains.

 

His clothes are strewn all over the room, but he does not see any of Solo's, no suit jacket hanging on the chair, no hastily discarded shoe beside the door.

 

The only reminder he has of Napoleon's presence is the ache in his thighs and soreness of his back, where Napoleon had left red lasting lines.

 

The panic grows in the pit of his stomach, the fear that Napoleon had been taken while he remains woefully ignorant. And so he packs hurriedly, throwing all his clothes into his bag as he clears the room of his own presence, and he storms down the stairs to where he is supposed to meet Gaby.

 

The woman herself is standing in the lobby, white round sunglasses already set on her face, and when she sees him, she simply turns and walks out of the place. He chases after her, and he half pleads to himself that Napoleon would be sitting in the car, waiting for the two of them with a cheeky remark.

 

But there is no one else in the car except for the driver and Gaby, and he clambers in distractedly, glancing about for any sign of the American. He thinks that they might simply be waiting for the man, but the moment the door closes, the car takes off, and he is left turning about in his seat, craning his neck to look for Napoleon.

 

Gaby begins to glance about too. "What?" she demands urgently. "Are we being followed?" He shakes his head and she settles, but Illya can feel her gaze on him throughout the ride.

 

Maybe Napoleon would be on the plane.

*

He isn't on the plane either.

 

They leave Denmark with their usual urgency, flying back to U.N.C.L.E. for their next mission, and Napoleon has officially been missing for at least 2 hours, probably more, so he turns to Gaby and asks,"Where's Napoleon?"

 

She shoots him a confused glance. "Hmm?"

 

"Where's Napoleon?" he repeats and he hates repeating himself but the worry is gnawing away at his stomach and he needs to know.

 

Gaby frowns in uncertainty. "Who's Napoleon?" 

*

The first question out of his mouth when he meets Alexander Waverly later that day is "Where's Napoleon?" and to his frustration, Waverly frowns too.

 

"Napoleon?" he questions and the man's eyes flick to Gaby, who shrugs.

 

"He's been asking after someone named Napoleon since we left Denmark," she answers instead and he growls under his breath for that is not the answer he wants. Waverly frowns again,this time in mild irritation, and he waves a hand as if he is brushing a pesky fly aside.

 

"I need you to go to Beijing," he says, pushing two files across his desk to them. There isn't a third one. "We have intel that an old friend of ours is starting up there again, recruiting new members and building more weaponry."

 

He can't focus on anything but the missing man who isn't flanking Gaby's left. Waverly's voice doesn't register at all.

 

He only becomes aware of his surroundings again when Waverly smiles, his jolly uncle smile stretched across his face, the one that usually means he is about to send them off on something particularly dangerous.

 

Gaby nods in acknowledgment, recognising that they've been dismissed, and she turns to leave, but she halts when she realises that Illya isn't moving. "Illya," she murmurs but he gestures towards the door and she understands that he needs a moment with Waverly and she leaves, but not without another concerned look.

 

"Yes Kuryakin," Waverly asks with a smile and he opens his mouth, the words falling out without his control.

 

"Where's Napoleon?" he asks again, and he feels like a broken record, or a child, unable to let go of their favourite toy, asking the same question again and again, as if if he asks it enough times, the answer will somehow be awarded to him.

 

Waverly shakes his head kindly, but Illya can see his hands are pressed tightly against his desk. "Still doesn't ring a bell," the man says and Illya wants to scream, but he does not.

 

"Is he on a secret mission?" he asks and Waverly shakes his head again and his fingertips are turning white.

 

"I don't recall a Napoleon at all, Mr Kuryakin," he says. "I suggest you get on that plane to Beijing soon."

*

There are no lines on his back. 

*

No one remembers who is Napoleon.

 

No one remembers a tall American spy, light fingered and devilishly charming, with a way of getting under your skin but enchanting you all the same, with a history of theft, with passable taste in clothes, with broad shoulders and bright blue eyes and a wide smile to match.

 

No one remembers him. Except for Illya.

*

He refuses to accept Napoleon's disappearance and so he searches, he looks for Napoleon.

 

He storms his way into U.N.C.L.E.'s records, glowering at those who tried to stand in his way, and he flips through all of the files, looking for a mention of a Napoleon or a Solo. The record of their first ever case together bears no mention of Napoleon, no CIA operative who helped Gaby escape.

 

The files come up empty.

 

He questions everyone in U.N.C.L.E. relentlessly, even those who he thinks would have never come into contact with Napoleon before, but he needs answers and he will stop at no means to get them.

 

He asks and asks until their faces grow pinched with annoyance and concern. He meets Waverly at least every other day to enquire about Napoleon's whereabouts until the man refuses to meet him anymore.

 

Gaby thinks he's playing a practical joke, but they both know he isn't one for jokes and she grows quietly worried, staring at him when she thinks he isn't looking.

 

He is though.

 

"Who helped you escape that night then?" he demands. "Who helped you escape from Eastern Berlin?"

 

Gaby looks offended. "I am capable of doing things by myself, Illya," she says. "I escaped on my own, with you chasing me down the street."

 

He shakes his head adamantly. "No," he insists. "Someone helped you. He shot at me twice when I pulled up in the car next to you."

 

Gaby sighs. "I shot at you," she explains slowly, as if she is talking to a child. "There was no one helping me, I don't know anyone named Napoleon."

 

Illya turns and leaves.

*

He starts writing everything down, all his memories with Napoleon that no one else seems to have or recall.

 

He details their first case painstakingly, from the moment he met him to the moment they decided to burn the tape. He includes everything, no matter how small. The gun Napoleon shoots with, the brand of the clothing he wears, his cologne, his favourite scotch, the smirk he has when he's done something particularly clever.

 

The papers are covered with words and little sketches, but there are gigantic crosses where he couldn't get the drawing to look quite right or when he struggles to remember the colour of Napoleon's bowtie.

 

He draws Napoleon's face, colours it in when he is satisfied that the drawing looks exactly like Napoleon does.  Napoleon grins up at him from the paper, hair slicked over to the side, his eyes gleaming with joy. He can almost hear Napoleon laugh.

 

His desk is covered with paper, stacks of them teetering precariously, the memories in chronological order.

 

And in the dead of the night, when no one is around, he writes of the one night they had together, of how Napoleon has gasped when he sucked at his neck, how the sheets were twisted beneath his fingers, the wide glassy look in Napoleon's eyes when Illya had pressed into him, the feeling of their hands clasped together, fingers interlocked, the muffled words he had whispered into Illya's mouth as their lips pressed together, and the words he had whispered back.

 

That memory takes him several sleepless nights to complete. He folds it up, along with the drawing of Napoleon's face, to keep it in his pocket.

*

He still goes on cases, albeit more reluctantly than he used to. The plane is quieter without Napoleon and Gaby bickering away. Now he stares out of the window and Gaby stares out of the other.

 

He finds himself pausing before he pushes open a door or turns a corner, waiting for a nod that never comes. He keeps looking back, expecting to see Napoleon there, crouched behind him, gun at the ready. And when he fights, he feels exposed with no one defending his back, no warm and steadying presence encouraging him.

 

He finds himself questioning the outfits he puts on, wondering what Napoleon would say if he was here. Any con they run, he can't help thinking about what role Napoleon would have played, and what trouble they would have gotten into together.

 

He hesitates more often now, without Napoleon at his side, and that is dangerous for a Soviet spy.

 

He never realised how reliant he actually was on his American.

*

The truth is you knew what you had, you just never thought you'd lose it. 

*

The months crawl past. It has been 162 days since he last saw Napoleon.

 

Christmas is coming up again.

 

The year before, they spent Christmas in France. They had finished their third mission together at the stroke of midnight, a full 24 hours before their deadline, and they had Christmas all to themselves.

 

Napoleon had been ecstatic, and he spent the day travelling around Paris. He had dragged Illya out of bed with him, despite the multiple threats of castration, and shown him around with all the joy of an overgrown puppy.

 

They went to the Eiffel Tower together and to the Louvre, where Napoleon had spent many minutes gaping at each art piece. He had even taken him to a small café, and bought him a croissant to try.

 

He remembers that he spent the day grumbling to himself, with Napoleon tugging on his arm every few minutes to drag him somewhere else. He remembers acting like he didn't enjoy the experience at all, rolling his eyes if Napoleon so much even as looks at him. He remembers going back to the hotel at the end of the day and Napoleon abandoning him for Gaby, with a crestfallen look that Illya had not enjoyed himself, and he sitting alone in their hotel room, listening to the other two sing Christmas carols upstairs.

 

He never told Napoleon that he had actually been to Paris before, but had gone with him anyway because he wanted to spend some time with him. He might never get the chance now.

 

He spends this Christmas drinking alone.

*

He's not sure if he's holding on anymore.

 

He's even more desperate to find Napoleon than he was at the start, 217 days since he last saw him. He has taken to combing through birth announcements in the newspaper, beginning from from 1941 and working his way back.

 

He realises he doesn't know Napoleon's birthday.

 

He goes to various graveyards across the country, looking for Napoleon Solo carved on one of the weathered grey stones and he finds no one, no one named Napoleon, no one named Solo, except for the one in his memory.

 

He goes to the house of Napoleon's parents, and stands at the corner across the street, staring up at the half destroyed apartment building, and the absolute desolation of the location.

 

He goes to each one of Napoleon's safehouses and finds them empty and clear. In every one of those neighbourhoods, at least one neighbour deigns to inform him that no one has lived in the house for 30 years.

 

He returns back to his house in the dead of the night after each search and he rummages through his notes, looking for details he might have overlooked that might lead him to Napoleon, for birthdays, for addresses, for names, but his search comes up empty.

 

During those nights, he collapses in front of the fire and dies.

*

"I'm alright," he answers when someone asks how he is.

 

"I'm perfectly fine."

*

He takes an interest in music, going to music stores whenever he doesn't have a mission on.

 

He stands stoically in the aisle, thumbing through endless records as he searches. He doesn't know what he's searching for.

 

He finds Cry To Me sitting innocently in a stack and he smiles vaguely, holding on to it as he moves through the store. He chances upon records with names on them that he can remember Napoleon mentioning to him once upon a time, and he holds onto them too. He ends up leaving the store with all the records.

 

That night, Illya puts all of them on and lets the scratchy sound fill the room. He sits in his chair at the start of Cry To Me, but he finds himself swaying to the beat by the end of it.

 

He dances to Jailhouse Rock, and Stand By Me, and he dances to Do You Love Me, and Only You. He dances to all of the songs, to all of the records that Napoleon had mentioned once upon a time, and he feels nothing but sadness and anger.

 

He still can't find Napoleon, no matter what he does, and now he is dancing by himself to songs that he doesn't know, attempting to sing the songs with the childlike hope that Napoleon will somehow come back, as if dancing was somehow the answer all along. He feels ridiculous.

 

But he knows that he's actually trying to make it up to Napoleon, for all the times he had shut him down when Napoleon had tried to talk to him, for all the times he had purposefully ignored Napoleon simply to annoy him, as if the man's disappearance is linked to his cruelty, and if he says the right word or does the right thing, he will somehow see the man again.

 

He wants to see the man again.

*

He wonders what does his obsession mean for him.

 

He tries to push it off as simply friendly concern for a colleague or a friend, but he has spent too much of his time looking for him to disregard his actions as friendly intentioned.

 

He knows that even before this, he had tried to spend as much time as possible with Napoleon, no matter how reluctant he felt at the time. He spends way too long staring at Napoleon and dragging his eyes away before the man can see him. His touches, no matter how brief or insignificant, always linger, and he keeps track of the number of times he and Napoleon have touched.

 

Their last night together was not a one off mistake, he recalls wanting to do it again when he had woken up. The words that escaped his mouth were words that had been building up within him from the beginning, not words born of lust and adrenaline.

 

What he feels is stronger than what he had felt for Gaby all those months back. It burns low in his gut, it crawls up his throat, it wraps itself around his heart and stays there.

 

He misses Napoleon more than he can say. He digs out the drawing he has of Napoleon's face everyday and stares at it, stares at it until the lines are etched into his mind, and then he stares at it some more.

 

He still writes notes, as small memories resurface, and the pile of notes grow ever higher. He binds them together with string and double knots it. He brings them with him everywhere he goes.

 

He can't forget Napoleon, he can't.

*

He supposes he might l-

*

"I need you to go to Tokyo," Waverly says. He does not look at Illya. Illya remains silent and stares at his shoes.

 

"There are rumours of unrest, and we believe that things could get a little dicey. We need you to go and figure out the causes and try to calm things down."

 

Gaby nods. She does not look at Illya either.

 

Waverly fixes them both with a look before his jolly uncle smile grows across his face.

 

"Try not to get shot, eh?"

*

Unrest is an understatement. The city teems with fear and distrust, people hurrying past them with their heads bowed. He does not see any of their faces, only feels the tension in the air as they brush past him.

 

The flickering lights seem too bright.

 

An underground organisation hides in the shadows, a dangerous bomb by their side, and they need to force it out and exterminate it. They steal into their headquarters, an abandoned quarry in the outskirts of the country, and they crouch in the dark, listening for footsteps and deceptively melodic words.

 

Gaby's eyes gleam in the darkness, her fingers wrapped tightly around her gun. He can see the excitement building in her eyes, the way she bounces lightly on the spot as she awaits action. Illya pats his pocket, feeling for the paper nestled within.

 

There is a clang on the stairs.

 

Gaby's fingers shoot up, and he watches as each finger curls into her palm, a countdown in progress. 3, 2, 1.

 

They shoot up, and Gaby dashes up the stairs. She catches the man by surprise, and her hand is around his mouth and there's a bullet in his chest before he can scream.

 

He runs past her, and into the room above, where the men sit around a table, cards in hand. His entrance shocks them, and they call out in anger as they wrestle guns from their pockets. He puts a bullet in two of their brains before the bullets start flying at him.

 

He dodges out of the way, diving behind a pillar before any of them make contact, and takes a moment to feel the adrenaline coursing through his system. This is the only thing that remains the same even without Napoleon at his side.

 

He fires out shot after shot, and he feels relief flooding him as he hears grunts when the men go down.

 

The sirens start blaring and he knows that Gaby has stolen the secret weapon from them, taken the bomb from their possession. There is a howl of anger from somewhere in the vicinity and there are only three men left in the room with him. Recklessness overtakes him and he steps out from behind the pillar. The men surround him and he shoots at them, putting bullets through their arms, smiling hollowly as they scream in pain.

 

But then he hears it. A bullet flies past his arm, and he hears the sound of solid impact, a man crying out and he forgets everything.

 

"Napoleon," he cries out and he turns to the man behind him, the man shot by the bullet meant for him.

 

There is no one behind him.

 

The bullets tear through his skin, one lodges solidly in his shoulder, there is one in his leg and another in his chest. He topples to his knees in pain, and he can hear footsteps converging on him. Spots swim in his vision, and he hisses in pain. Blood oozes down his arm and onto the floor.

 

The last thing he remembers before he blacks out is the sound of German and fury.

*

He would be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it.

 

But he wouldn’t do it. He would never do it

 

Doing it means failure, doing it means Napoleon is well and truly gone, doing it means Napoleon has never existed.

 

And he refuses for that to happen.

 

He will stay alive to find Napoleon, he will stay alive as long as he can to keep Napoleon's memory alive.

 

He will not die til Napoleon is at his side and until then, he will stay alive.

 

He just wishes he wasn't so lonely at times.

*

He dreams of Napoleon.

 

He sees a montage of all the missions they've been on together, of all the mishaps they've gotten into, of all the times they escaped with nothing more than the skin off their backs.

 

He's back in Denmark, standing alone in Frederiksberg Gardens, the place where it had began, where Napoleon had turned to look at him and he had leaned in to kiss him.

 

But he is not alone. Someone is walking towards him. Napoleon is walking towards him.

 

His heart is in his throat and he tries to run to him, but he can't move. He's fixed in place.

 

Napoleon walks up to him and he smiles, a sad resigned smile he has only seen once before, the same smile he had smiled in Paris.

 

"You have forgotten me," the man says sadly and he tries to shake his head, but he can't move. "No," Illya protests through a dry mouth.

 

"You have." There's a long weary sigh, it blows through the gardens, it echos through his bones, the sigh is long and never ending. Napoleon blinks, his blue eyes are draining of colour.

 

"You have stopped looking for me," he says and Illya tries to shake his head again, but he still can't move. "No!" he protests, louder this time, but the words die in the space between them.

 

His whole body is draining of colour, there is only grey left. His eyes are empty. He is fading away.

 

"Goodbye, Illya," the ghost says and he can finally move so he steps forward with a cry, reaching for the ghost but his fingers close around hollow air and he is alone again.

 

He is alone again.

*

He wakes up in a white sterile hospital room.

 

Gaby and Waverly stare back at him, relief written over their faces.

 

"Illya," Gaby breathes and she squeezes his hand, he squeezes hers back. Waverly nods firmly at him.

 

"Now that you are back in the world of the living, Agent Kuryakin," the suited man says dryly. "I would like to congratulate you both of the successful ending of your last mission. However, it might have gone a bit more smoothly, if you didn't get shot, Kuryakin."

 

He rasps an agreement, his throat feels awfully dry. Waverly looks a little bit more pleased.

 

"I'm glad you agree, Kuryakin," he begins but Gaby clears her throat and he glances significantly over at her. "But," he continues. "I will have to condemn your reckless actions during the mission. And I have to admit, I've been growing a bit more concerned with the number of reports on my desk about your behaviour."

 

There's a look in his eye, as if he is trying to convey something to Kuryakin. He glances away then, and Illya realises his hands and feet are restrained. He tugs and there's hardly any give.

 

Gaby refuses to meet his gaze. "You wouldn't stop screaming in your sleep," she whispers. "You wouldn't stop flailing. We had to restrain you, or the nurses couldn't work."

 

Waverly sighs and Illya's eyes dart over to him. "I would like you to take a break, Kuryakin," the man orders. "An extended break. I have recommended you for a month's leave, starting the day after tomorrow. I expect you to be in tip top shape, physically and mentally, after this."

 

His expression softens, and he pats Illya on the shoulder. He stiffens up immediately.

 

"Try to relax, Illya," the man whispers. "You need it." He pats the man on the shoulder one last time, and straightens up, nodding at Gaby as he goes.

 

Gaby keeps staring at the floor, even as the hospital door closes behind her, and it is only the two of them in the room. The room is filled with the sound of their breathing, and he doesn't find it peaceful.

 

"You're not okay, Illya," she says finally. "You haven't been okay for almost a year now."

 

He struggles to explain, the words forming roughly in his mouth. "I have to find Napoleon," is all he says and Gaby looks even sadder.

 

"We don't know any one named Napoleon," she says. "We never have. And I know you've been searching, but he hasn't come up anywhere. Illya," she breathes. "Illya, Napoleon d-"

 

"Don't!" he barks hoarsely and Gaby finally looks at him. There is pain in her eyes.

 

"Take a break, Illya," she says and she bends to kiss him on the cheek. He lets her. It is a small thing to do to make her happy.

 

"You're going to be okay," she promises and he looks away.

 

337 days since he last saw Napoleon.

*

He pushes himself through PT, checks out far earlier than he is supposed to.

 

He still has two weeks left on his extended break, two weeks until it will have been a year since Napoleon disappeared.

 

He books a plane to Denmark, and he packs his clothes, his gun and his notes. His drawing of Napoleon is now stained with blood but he brings it too, keeps it tucked away in his pocket.

 

He has to walk with a cane, since he still isn't done with his PT, but that is no matter. He books a room in the same hotel, insists on having the same room he had a year ago. It is important, he insists over the phone, it is important.

 

He goes to Denmark, avoiding eye contact with everyone on the plane. He spends the flight staring out of the window, pointedly ignoring the happy giggling couple next to him.

 

He needs a plan.

 

After he checks into the hotel, he goes to Frederiksberg Gardens. He walks around the placd, and he bows his head in silence. His hands are deep within his pockets and he takes comfort in the feeling of the notepaper brushing against his fingers.

 

More couples surround him, taunting him with their laughter, and he escapes to the Apis Temple, where he had first kissed Napoleon and where he had seen him in his dream.

 

The temple isn't open to the public today so it is relatively quiet. The air is filled with the smell of flowers and sunlight and all Illya can hear is the sound of his footsteps on dry leaves, and his own slow breathing.

 

He ventures to the back of the temple, to the patch of grass behind it, where no one ever goes, and he walks quietly to where he was in his dream. He keeps his gaze on the ground as he walks to the exact spot and he keeps looking down. The wind picks up and his eyes close of their violation, and he finds himself saying please bring Napoleon back, bring him back, please, please.

 

He waits until the wind whistles through his hair and past his ear before he looks up.

 

He is alone.

*

He returns to the park everyday.

 

He is always alone.

*

On the 364th day of Napoleon's disappearance, he shows up to the park again. This time, he brings his notes with him.

 

He sits on the grass, and pulls his drawing reverently out of his pocket, and sets it down on the grass in front of him, where Napoleon stood.

 

His blood stains the drawing, there's a smear of blood across Napoleon's nose and cheek, and a splash atop a bright blue eye.

 

It doesn't stop him though.

 

He reads every single page of his notes to the drawing, every detail of their secret missions, all he remembers of Napoleon's ties and shoes, of his smiles and laughs, of his jokes and of his wit. He reads everything. Even the page with their last memory together.

 

He reads until his voice grows hoarse and the night goes dark around him and the park becomes empty. He draws his coat closer to him and continues reading. And when he's done, he pauses, fingers splayed across his notes to keep them from flying away, and he listens. He listens for a familiar voice, for a shuffling of feet, for any sound or indication that an American spy might be standing in front of him.

 

He looks up and he is alone.

 

He breaks.

 

He screams at the top of his lungs and gathers all his notes and his drawing with a sweep of his hand and he storms back to his hotel, a wave of anger filling his blood. He throws the worn notes everywhere when he is in his room, he breaks the glasses atop of the bar. He rips the flowers out of their vase and stamps on them, trampling them beneath his feet. He smashes the wooden table to splinters with a kick of his feet and he pours the alcohol into the fire and he screams.

 

He screams mindlessly, wordlessly, a scream of an animal in indescribable pain. There are tears in his eyes and blood on his hands and he hears the rip of paper and then he realises he has torn the drawing.

 

"No, no, no," he pleads but it is done and the paper lies in two pieces in his hands. Napoleon's face is split down the middle and the incomplete smile mocks him.

 

He rushes to the table and he tries to draw it out again, but his hands are red with blood and they shake with anger and fear and he can't draw anything. Nothing comes out right. He can't see Napoleon's face.

 

He sobs, tears falling onto the desk and he cries like he hasn't done since he was a child and all he can say is "Sorry" and "Please".

 

He begs again, pleads to God and whoever might be listening, even though he does not believe in a higher power, but he is a shell of a man and he's desperate and he begs.

 

Please, I'm sorry, he says. Please, bring Napoleon back. Please.

 

But there is no answer.

 

He cries himself to sleep that night.

*

When he wakes up the next morning, he keeps his eyes closed.

 

365 days since Napoleon disappeared.

 

His breath catches in his throat and he struggles to breathe. His heart weighs down heavily on the inside his chest, and the pain rests on top of his lungs. He feels like he is drowning. He shakes his head slowly to himself.

 

One year since he had last seen Napoleon with his own eyes and he goes back to work tomorrow. He doesn't want to be anywhere without Napoleon.

 

He opens his eyes.

 

He is curled up on his side, facing the bright balcony, the window is framed by white lace curtains flapping loosely in the wind but he is not alone.

 

He reaches out across the bed, and his fingers brush against warm skin and a sleepy body. Napoleon opens his eyes and smiles at him.

 

"Hi," he says.

 

Illya leaps across the bed and he pins Napoleon underneath his own body. He strokes his face, and runs his hands over the man's arms and chest, feeling the solidness under his fingers, testing the reality of the person beneath him. Napoleon looks vaguely alarmed.

 

"You're real?" he demands. "You're not a dream?"

 

Napoleon shakes his head slowly, and he looks Illya up and down, checking over him carefully.

 

"No, Peril," he says. "I am not a dream."

 

The clock next to the bed says it is the 12th of July 1964.

 

He grabs hold of Napoleon's face between his hands, and presses his lips against his, kissing him for all he's worth, pouring out everything he couldn't say for the year they were apart.

 

"I love you," he promises when they break for air. "I've loved you since the day I met you, and everyday since then, and I'm sorry I did not say anything until now, but I love you more than anything else in my life, and I never want to be apart from you. I love you, Cowboy, I love you."

 

Napoleon pants from his position below Illya and his hair is wild but his eyes are sincere and he holds onto Illya's hands where they are grasping his face. "I love you too," he whispers and Illya collapses onto Napoleon's chest for it is the 12th of July 1964, and all that is all he needed to hear, and that is all he will ever need to hear for the rest of his life.

 

He got his Napoleon back.

*

Sometimes the things that you've let go of come back to you, and you will know what it is to have loved and lost, and what it is that you cannot afford to lose.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to [PotterheadAvengerDemigod](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PotterheadAvengerDemigod/pseuds/PotterheadAvengerDemigod) for her help with the last line!
> 
> Please comment below if this made you cry (it's for science), and if you want to read something a bit lighter, feel free to check out [The Way You Make Me Feel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4749734).
> 
> If you want to cry with me about TMFU, or just anything at all really, my tumblr is [here](http://www.bisexualexhamilton.tumblr.com).


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